


The Porch

by Soleya



Category: Stargate SG-1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 06:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12501280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soleya/pseuds/Soleya
Summary: Sam Carter was never going to sell that house.





	The Porch

So.... This has just been sitting around....

 

* * *

 

 

Sam sipped at her tea, tilting the rocking chair with one foot as she watched the sun dip toward the mountains. There were children swinging in the park; they squealed in terror and delight as they swung out to forty-five degrees or so and leaped free. That had been the height of adventure in Sam's life once, too, and she smiled as two girls hit the ground, giggled at each other, and ran for the swing set again. She'd thought about selling the house time and time again – it was a pain to keep up with long deployments to lost cities and starships, after all – but every time she sat on that porch, she was glad she'd kept it. Most of the best things in her life had started when she'd moved there; most of her good memories were of people and things that somehow tied back there. More than any other place she could remember, this was home.

A brand-new black truck – a rental – pulled up to the curb out front, as she'd expected. And as she'd expected, a handsome silver-haired man in civilian clothes stepped out. He stepped through the gate but stopped short of the porch steps, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans as he said with a shrug, “I got fired today.”

She managed a mostly straight face, though she couldn't stop the eyebrow that slid up an inch. “Most people call it 'retirement.'”

“Yeah, well.”

The smile broke free, and she sipped her tea to hide it.

“So... since I'm fired... it would seem I have the evening free,” he said. “And the next one. And the one after that. Have you, uh.... Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“No?”

To be fair, it was after seven. But.... “I had a feeling if I sat on this porch long enough tonight, I might get an invitation.”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “You did.”

“I did.”

“Were you hoping for an invitation to any particular place?” It was his turn to try and hide his amusement, and dammit, he was better at it than she was. He always had been.

“Well, there's always O'Malley's,” she shrugged. “Or Delhi Palace. Or Formaggio.”

He tilted his head at her. “I haven't heard of that one.”

“It's only maybe a year old, but it's getting great reviews. It's just never been the right time to go. Maybe it still isn't.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“It's topped about four lists for the best date night spot in Colorado Springs.”

He was silent for a beat, and she thought maybe she'd been too forward, but they'd been playing this game for a decade too long and a woman was allowed to have _plans_ , dammit. And she wasn't wasting any more time.

Giving that same overly casual shrug, he said, “I could do Italian.”

Her chest swelled, the warmth in her heart spilling out her eyes and making her smile, and she didn't try to hide it.

Finally pulling his hands from his pockets, he gestured at his jeans. “Should I change?”

She raised her brows, feigning more than a little accusation as she asked, “You brought a change of clothes?”

He could easily have pawned that off – it was a long flight from DC, and he obviously wasn't going to fly back that night – but he didn't. Instead, he smiled and said, “Seemed like the thing to do.”

“Confident,” she drawled. She set aside her tea to appraise him with crossed arms. “No. You look just fine to me.”

She'd gotten to her feet, picking up the mug to take it inside, when he finally let reality intrude. “It's Friday night,” he said as she opened the front door. “You think we'll get in?”

“I wouldn't worry too much about that,” she called back through the open door as she traded the tea for her purse and pulled a sweater from the front closet. “I have a feeling they'll have a table for us right around eight.”

“Confident,” he echoed. His voice was closer than it should have been, and she turned to find him just two steps outside her front door. He didn't move inside.

And that was good, because she really did want to go to dinner, and if he walked through the door, that would be... questionable.

He held out a hand for her. She accepted, letting his small tug pull her back outside and close to him. His fingers still tangled in hers; his other hand came up to tenderly cradle the back of her head as he murmured, “Tell me you're not gonna make me wait until after dinner.”

No. They'd waited over a decade, and she couldn't play it cool for another minute. Her eyes slipped closed as she tipped her face up to his.

His lips were warm and gentle. He didn't push, didn't ask for more. There would be time for that later, but for the moment, that was enough.

No, she decided. It was everything. Just being there with him was everything. Content, he tilted his forehead against hers and just held her, both relishing in the embrace as laughter from the park and the music of her neighbor's wind chimes surrounded them. She tucked the memory carefully away.

She was never, ever going to sell that house.

He pressed his lips to her temple, then her cheekbone. Then he murmured, “I guess getting fired doesn't completely suck.”

Her forehead fell to his shoulder as she laughed. “You're ridiculous.”

“You love me,” he challenged softly.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “I do.”

His lips found the skin just in front of her ear. “Ditto.”

She whipped back, only half feigning upset. “ _Ditto_? You can't say 'ditto' to that!”

“To what? To 'yeah, I do?' Yeah, you can,” he said with a smile.

Dammit, he had a point. “But-”

“But you _can't_ say 'I love you' before your first date.”

“Yeah, you can!” she insisted.

“No,” he said simply. “You can't. So you're just gonna have to come to dinner with me.”

She couldn't help the way her lips curled up even as she accused, “You're a jerk.”

“And you love me,” he repeated.

“ _Ditto_ ,” she challenged.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning close. “I do.” And he kissed her again.

“I thought you couldn't say that before a first date.”

“Say what? 'Yeah, I do?' Yeah, you can, and I feel like we've covered this already.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, my God.”

It was his turn to laugh as his hands slid to her lower back and pulled her close. “This is gonna be fun.”

“Right up until I strangle you.”

“Some people are into that.”

“You _definitely can't_ talk about that before a first date,” she insisted.

“Then I guess we'd better go to dinner,” he said with a shrug.

“Or a _third_ date.”

“We've been doing this backward for a decade and a half, and now you wanna make a timeline?”

His arms were still looped around her waist, and she settled her hands on his shoulders as she defended lightly, “I'm traditional.”

“I know.” He pressed his lips to hers, long and warm and deep. And then he whispered in her ear, “I love you.”

She filed that memory away, too, giving him a beautifully wide smile. “Let's go to dinner.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Taking her hand in his own, Jack O'Neill led her down the steps and through the gate of the house she loved.

She hoped he loved it, too. Because they were going to make another lifetime of memories.

 


End file.
